Noah

by Mark Morris

  Sidling around the last corner, crouching low to make himself less of a target, he peered into the shadowy canyon.

  And there was the hound, exhausted, limping, whining in dismay as it ranged back and forth along the length of the canyon wall, searching vainly for an opening, a means of escape. Noah grimaced in pity as he saw the hound gather its failing strength and leap at the rock face in an attempt to scramble up and over it, only to fall back with an agonized yelp.

  Noah hurried forward, his knife tucked back in his belt, still moving swiftly and soundlessly over the dusty ground. At the last moment, when he was no more than five steps from the creature, the hound sensed or smelled him and whipped around, its jowls curling back in a snarl, the thick, overlapping scales that covered it scraping and clacking together.

  Noah stretched out his arms, palms uppermost, to show the creature that he carried no weapons and meant it no harm. He had no intention of frightening the already terrified beast still further.

  Drawing on the last of its dwindling strength, the hound lunged and snapped at Noah. He danced nimbly out of reach as its jaws clacked together on empty air. Leaping to his left he darted forward again, sliding under another attempted bite. Now he was alongside the creature, close enough to it to wrap his arms around it. Which is precisely what he did, one arm curling up and over the dog’s snout, his hand gently but firmly clamping its jaws shut, and the other snaking around its body as he pulled the hound into the protective warmth of his embrace.

  Panicked, the hound bucked and jerked, but Noah held it tight. He could smell the animal’s blood and the rank sweat of its fear, could feel the blazing heat of its shuddering body. He made deep, soothing, cooing noises at the back of his throat.

  “Easy, easy,” he whispered, kneeling. Gradually the hound became calmer, more relaxed. Its panting lessened. Little by little Noah slackened his grip on its body. He unclamped its jaws, and feebly the animal licked his hand.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Good boy. Now let’s have a look at that wound.”

  “That kill is ours!” The voice, harsh and heavily accented, came from behind him. Setting the hound’s head gently on the ground, Noah stood and turned, keeping his body relaxed.

  The man standing between the narrowing walls of the canyon was a desert poacher, a desperate scavenger. He was filthy and savage-looking, his black eyes blazing from a skull-like face, his filthy, matted clothes little more than a collection of animal skins that had been stitched together. His lips curled back from teeth that had been filed into points. In one hand he was holding a curved, hand-made blade, tarnished with blood, and in the other a large, sharp-edged stone.

  A trickle of dust above him made Noah look up. Two more poachers, equally savage-looking, stood one on either side of him, perched on the rocks above, silhouetted against the dust-gray sky. The poacher to the left was holding a long spear, while the other was brandishing a roughly hewn but lethal-looking sword and grinning maniacally through a thick black beard caked with filth. Moving slowly and cautiously, Noah released the hound and positioned his body protectively in front of it.

  The three poachers began to close in, the leader walking slowly toward Noah, his comrades moving down from the canyon walls in a pincer movement.

  Noah eyed them cautiously, weighing the situation. Behind him the hound whimpered in fear, bracing its paws against the ground as though preparing to rise and flee. Noah quieted it with a word and a hand gesture.

  “Walk away and maybe you live… or maybe not,” the leader of the poachers said. The man carrying the spear cackled. Noah rose to his full height and turned to stare at him. There was something about the stillness and intensity of his expression and posture that arrested the laugh in the man’s throat.

  The poacher leader spoke again. His voice was rough, guttural, his words spoken with an accent.

  “You know how long since we ate? Since we even seen an animal?” He grinned, showing his pointed teeth and his eyes glittered. “Maybe we eat you, too.”

  The spear-carrying poacher cackled again, a real hoot this time, as if his leader’s remark was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

  Noah simply stood there, unmoving and unruffled. Behind him the hound panted with exhaustion. The silence stretched out. Noah looked evenly at the poacher leader. Finally the man jerked his head.

  “So?”

  Noah continued to stare at him, and then without speaking he gave a tiny shake of the head.

  The poacher leader scowled, squaring his shoulders. Raising his knife a fraction higher, he took a swaggering step closer.

  “No?” he barked. “Not going to walk away? You want us to kill you?”

  Still Noah said nothing. His steely reserve was clearly beginning to both agitate and unnerve the poachers now. Despite the weapons they carried and the fact that they were flanking their prey on three sides, nervous glances darted back and forth between them, as if they were uncertain what to do.

  Perhaps fearful of losing face, of having his authority undermined, the poacher leader took another step forward.

  “Why don’t you say something?” Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. “Don’t you talk?”

  Again Noah gave the tiniest shake of his head. It was the most economical of movements in his otherwise still form, and it gave the impression that he was conserving his energy, readying himself.

  The poacher leader licked his lips. His knife arm sagged a little. Noah tensed. Was this a ruse? Or was the man genuinely beginning to lose his taste for the fight?

  The poachers were clearly hungry and the pickings were so meager that Noah couldn’t believe they would simply give up on the chance of a meal. Then again, perhaps they were weak from the lack of food, and therefore lacking conviction. Perhaps if he simply stood his ground for several moments longer, they would—

  But then everything changed.

  Maybe sensing that the threat from the hunters was ebbing, or simply galvanized by a few precious moments of rest, the wounded hound suddenly leaped to its feet, dodged around Noah’s legs, and took off. It ran straight at the lead poacher, who looked astonished, even alarmed for a moment. And then, just when it seemed the creature might leap and attack him, it changed direction, veering around the man and racing toward the opening in the rocks where the canyon curved around a corner.

  Reacting instinctively, the poacher leader turned and hurled his stone at the departing animal. Noah heard the hound howl in pain, but he didn’t see where the missile had struck it.

  The two poachers flanking him took advantage of his momentary distraction with the animal’s fate, and attacked.

  Releasing bloodcurdling cries, the men leaped toward Noah, weapons raised. Noah’s reaction, however, was shockingly fast.

  Exploding into action, he whipped his knife from his belt, ducked under the clumsy thrust of the spear from the poacher who had laughed at him earlier, and sprang forward, slashing the man’s throat. As the man fell, blood spraying in an arc from his neck, Noah pivoted and grabbed his spear before it could slip from his fingers.

  Spinning around, he was confronted by the poacher leader, who was bearing down on him, pointed teeth bared and his curved blade raised above his head. Before he could bring the blade down in a killing blow, however, Noah spun again, pistoned his leg out behind him and kicked the onrushing man square in the knee, shattering his leg. The poacher screamed and fell heavily to the ground, the blade spinning out of his hand.

  That left only the bearded poacher to contend with. From the corner of his eye, Noah saw the man’s sword already arcing in a downward sweep toward his head. He flung himself backward and the blade of the sword sliced through the air no more than a hand’s span in front of his face. As the unconnected blow made the bearded poacher stumble forward, Noah sidestepped so that he was standing directly in front of the man, and raised the spear.

  The poacher’s eyes widened, but he was unable to stop his forward momentum. He staggered straight on to the po
int of the spear, which passed through his animal-skin clothing and into his belly.

  The bearded poacher fell, tearing the spear from Noah’s hands as he lurched sideways. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he writhed in agony on the ground for a moment, his legs pedaling frantically as if trying to outrun his own imminent demise. Then, hands still clutched around the increasingly bloody shaft protruding from his stomach, he became still, his body slumping and relaxing in death.

  Withdrawing the spear, Noah looked at the three fallen men, panting a little from his exertions. Then he raised his head and looked beyond them, to where he had last seen the hound.

  Immediately his face fell. The creature was crawling gamely toward the opening in the rocks, dragging itself along using its front paws, leaving a thick, dark trail of blood. It was clear from the way its back legs were trailing helplessly behind it that the poacher’s rock had all but finished it.

  Noah hurried up to the hound and knelt before it. He muttered a few soothing words, and slowly extended his hand towards its muzzle. The hound sniffed his fingers, then licked them. Murmuring softly Noah stroked the animal’s head, his strong hand smoothing its thickly plated hide, providing comfort. But he knew the creature was doomed. He had to put an end to its misery.

  The hound closed its eyes. Still stroking its bony head with one hand, Noah slipped his knife from its sheath and positioned its point in the gap beneath one overlapping scale and another, precisely at the base of the animal’s skull.

  “Sorry, my friend,” he murmured. And then, with one quick, decisive thrust, he ended the creature’s life. It shuddered once and then was still.

  Noah rose wearily to his feet and slipped the knife back into its sheath. He was about to walk away when he heard a whimper of pain. Two of the poachers lay dead, but one, the leader, was stirring. He attempted to rise and screamed out in agony as the bones of his shattered knee ground together. Sensing or perhaps merely hoping that Noah was nearby, he began to plead for help.

  Noah considered leaving the man to his fate, and then with a grim expression he walked across to him.

  The man’s eyes, clouded with pain, swiveled to look at him. His mouth moved. “Please,” he whispered. “Have mercy.”

  “As you had mercy for that poor creature?” muttered Noah.

  Despite the pain of his injury, confusion and indignation passed across the man’s face. “That is nothing but an animal.”

  “As are you,” said Noah.

  “Man has to eat,” the poacher whispered.

  Noah’s face darkened. “Man has a choice. To destroy Creation or to tend it, to live and work alongside it. In peace.”

  The poacher frowned. Noah’s philosophy was clearly incomprehensible to him. Trying a different tack, he fumbled beneath the layers of animal skin adorning his body and withdrew a small drawstring bag, which he opened and upended.

  A number of small whitish-yellow stones tumbled out and rolled across the dusty ground. They seemed to absorb the light around them and to glow with it, or perhaps even to pulse gently with a mysterious inner light of their own.

  Noah recognized the substance. This was tzohar, a rare and precious commodity. It was said that the Watchers had once been made of it before they fell from the heavens. It was said that it was the source of light in the world of Man before the Creator provided him with the sun.

  “Take it,” the poacher said, gazing up at Noah beseechingly. “Take all of it.”

  Noah simply glared down at the poacher, his face hard.

  “Please,” the man begged. “Please. What more do you want?”

  Noah looked at the sprawled body of the hound, its back legs smashed, its flank bleeding from the spear that had penetrated its flesh.

  Turning back to the man he withdrew his knife from his belt.

  “What do I want?” he muttered. “One thing only. Justice.”

  * * *

  Ham helped his father wrap the body of the hound in a simple shroud made from the cloak that Noah wore to protect himself from the dust storms that blew frequently across the plains. They climbed to the peak of the highest ridge in order that the corpse could be as close as possible to the Creator. Noah lit a fire by placing a piece of tzohar on a flat rock and smashing it with the hilt of his knife, causing it to ignite.

  By the time Noah lifted the makeshift shroud and carried it across to the fire it was late afternoon and getting cold. Noah placed the shrouded beast almost tenderly into the flames and then the three of them stood back, watching it burn, Ham wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of the smoke that drifted his way.

  They were silent for a time and then Ham spoke.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, son?” Noah looked at the small boy.

  Ham’s head was cocked to one side, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “Why did those men kill the hound?”

  “To eat it,” Shem told his brother.

  “Eat it?” Ham looked shocked and confused. He couldn’t conceive of such barbarity. “Why?”

  “They think it makes them stronger,” Noah said.

  Ham sniffed the burning meat, curious. “Is it true?” he asked.

  Noah scowled. “They forget. Strength comes from the Creator.”

  “Will more men come?” Shem asked his father.

  Now Noah gazed out over the ridge, beyond the valley below and across the plain to the horizon.

  He pointed. “Look there, Shem. What do you see?”

  Shem squinted, the dust stinging his eyes. Far away in the distance he saw strange spire-like constructions jabbing darkly into the sky, threads of black smoke curling upward.

  “I see… mountains?” he said uncertainly. “Mountains full of fire?”

  Noah smiled grimly. “They are not mountains. They are buildings, created by Man.”

  Shem gasped. “But there are so many of them!”

  “It is a city,” Noah said.

  “Do men live in the city?” Ham asked fearfully. “Like the ones who wanted to kill and eat the beast?”

  Noah nodded. “Yes. There are many men. So many. Soon they will be everywhere.”

  Ham’s eyes widened in fear.

  “What shall we do, Father?” Shem asked.

  Noah sighed. His gaze followed the threads of smoke as they rose toward the mute heavens.

  Finally he muttered, “We will pray.”

  Without another word he turned and walked away and began to descend the ridge. Shem followed.

  Ham stood for a moment, staring across at the distant city, fear and awe on his face.

  “Many men,” he murmured. He glanced at the blackening corpse of the hound in the fire, which was popping and crackling angrily as the fat in its body burned.

  Then, with a final shudder, he turned and hurried after his father and Shem.

  * * *

  A hazy red sun was setting over a distant, dormant volcano as Noah and his two sons walked toward a pair of small, domed tents close around the warmth of a blazing fire. Above the fire was suspended a bubbling pot of heavy black metal, yielding an aroma which, drifting across the plain, was so appetizing that it encouraged Ham to break into a run despite his tiredness. The tents, coated with dust, were the same color as the surrounding hills and would have been invisible to the naked eye if it hadn’t been for the fire. In the dusk the flame was like a beacon, announcing their presence. Despite the fact that the home camp was well sheltered, Noah felt nervous. As far as he was concerned, the encroaching civilization was getting too close for comfort.

  “Mother! Mother!”

  As Ham pounded up to the camp, the flap of the largest tent was pushed aside and a woman emerged. She was carrying a tiny infant, a newborn, in the crook of one arm. She smiled and ruffled Ham’s hair as he threw his arms around her and pressed his face into her belly.

  The woman, Naameh, was around thirty years old. She was tired and thin, ground down by life, but still breathtakingly beautiful. Her pale eyes were almost catlike, her hair as bl
ack and glossy as a raven’s wing.

  Noah walked up to his wife and kissed her deeply. Then he planted a more chaste kiss on the head of his newborn son, Japheth.

  “You were so long. I was getting worried,” Naameh said.

  “We met with some unexpected difficulties,” Noah muttered.

  Ham, still clinging to his mother, looked up at her, his eyes shining. “There were men,” he said breathlessly. “They killed a hound. They were going to eat it!”

  “Men?” Naameh looked at Noah in consternation.

  Noah gestured toward the largest of the tents. “The boys are hungry. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  * * *

  All was quiet, and only a single candle was burning inside the tent. The boys were asleep, breathing deeply. Naameh was feeding Japheth, the baby suckling hungrily at her breast. Noah, sitting on his bedroll, watched her, grim-faced. She smiled at him, but received only a twitch of the lips in response. When Japheth was full and she had laid him in his cot, Naameh crossed to her husband and wrapped her arms around him. They both looked up as Ham murmured and twitched in his sleep, troubled by bad dreams.

  “How was he today? About the hunters, I mean?”

  Noah shrugged. “A little too interested.”

  “He had to see it sometime.”

  Noah was silent for a moment, and then he said, “I saw something else. A flower bloomed from nothing.”

  Naameh looked at him curiously, then placed a hand on the back of his head and began to stroke it gently, running her fingers through his hair.

  “Rest,” she murmured.

  Noah sighed. Looking around the tent again, his gaze roaming restlessly over his sleeping sons, he said bitterly, “They deserve better than this.”

  Naameh leaned into her husband, kissed his grizzled cheek and squeezed his rough, scarred hand.